"The curse!" The girl shivered as she had when she looked at the tall man.
"Yes, but it will not, cannot, follow you, for the romantic codicil was written on the back of the original yellow chart—it was stolen from someone I knew by a man with a scar"
"A scar—was it like a streak of forked lightning across the cheek, with another funny one over it—like—like the button of an electric bell?"
"If he was also very ugly, yes, but how did you know that?"
She touched his elbow with her fingers.
It was the lightest of gestures, and no one saw the expression of wistfulness that softened his eyes, for one fleeting second, then vanished.
"Do you see those masts?" Her hand pointed to the south east. "Well, the gentleman's on that yacht—resting. Ben had an argument with him last night," she added, with an expression of mingled disgust and satisfaction.
"Do not worry about him. He was looking for the gold—the curse will follow him, if it has not already." He looked at her sailor sweetheart and smiled.
"And us?" It was a mournful, almost frightened way she asked this question.
"Oh, not for you, not for you." The sudden vehemence, the subdued passion of the words, gave them the effect of a heart-wrung petition, so much so that Ben looked at the stranger, for he really was that to them still, with a puzzled, inquiring glance that was not entirely free from suspicion.
